Fly
by convoitez
Summary: He is the son of a wraith, semi-mortal, a child of dusk. She is the halfling, part fey, marked with a darkling taint. And somehow, these two misfits are set on a collision course. Follows the original story with, er, deviations.
1. Set Yourself on Fire

Oh goodness, oh goodness. This began as a simple idea, and then grew into a monster. It is my darling, but I can handle honesty. After all, how else is one supposed to improve?

Anyways. Phantom translated into another world, full of quiet magic(k) and power, inspired by the likes of Charles de Lint and Peter S. Beagle, both of whom are geniuses. Everything you recognize is not mine, everything you do not belongs to me. I do believe that's it, so enjoy!

Prologue 1: First Time Around

* * *

He came to her in dreams, this strange phantom lover, in the suspended limbo between sleep and reality. No matter how she tried to focus her mind and her eyes, he remained just out of reach, a lethargic haze moving exquisitely slowly over her senses. They burned in the night and cooled to mirror the dawn, as he fled with the rising sun.

Marguerite Dubé had never been anything more or anything less than a practical, church-going girl. She was a second-glance beauty, as she tended to wind her hair too tightly and squinted her eyes to see the world in front of her; but her lips were full, her nose turned up delicately, and she held herself with a certain proud grace. Over the years, she had collected a respectable number of suitors, but none had ever seen or predicted her sudden glimmer, the tendency to retire earlier with every night. In fact, no one seemed to notice any difference in her composure, other than a relaxing of her frequently pursed lips and a newfound strength in her laughter.

As a nice, practical Catholic girl, Marguerite knew the time spent twisting in the sheets, sweat pooling on her brow and in the small of her back were a sin, an so she spent hours in from of the Virgin Mary, praying over and over for forgiveness, for deliverance from the unseen demons. However, her prayers were half-hearted at best; still he came, and still she submitted willingly.

Nights passed and their couplings grew and multiplied until it seemed she did nothing but sleep, even though lines began to etch themselves around her eyes and her skin grew dull and sallow. By the time he chose to reveal his true form, she was too far gone to do anything but accept him into her bed regardless, unheeding of the caresses burning her skin with frost, the yellow eyes holding her defenseless and writhing under his nonexistent weight.

The next morning, she knelt not in front of the Virgin, but her chamber pot, emptying what little remained in her stomach.

Three months passed, drenched in nervous secrecy and evasions. Her dream-lover had not returned, and yet she did not sleep, praying to whomever might listen to cleanse her body, to take away the life she became aware of growing inside her. Yet again, no matter how much she poured into her pleas, no matter what she offered in return, no help came. When her stomach began to expand noticeably, she went to confession for the first time in nearly a year, hoping to salvage – at the very least – her soul.

The remnants of her pregnancy were spent in a nearby convent, where the nuns tended to regard her as a particularly dim fern who had somehow learned how to talk, or did not notice her at all. That was when her mind truly began to curdle, in the endless silence of stone walls and among the exacting reminder of God's wrath. Eventually, even solitude was denied to her; after she threw herself down the spiraling stone steps in an attempt to smash in her head or her abdomen – it made no difference, not anymore – she was not allowed a moment to herself. Not to bathe, not to eat, not even in nightmares, where they lingered as he once did.

It was not an easy birth: Marguerite dared to hope that might serve as her penance, but when she heard the midwife's shrieks of terror, she realized that her own personal hell had just begun.

* * *

They were married at noon, with the fluttering of green leaves as their only visible witnesses – but there, and there and perhaps there, just beyond the boundaries of this world, figures large and small gathered around the sun-dappled clearing, straining for a glimpse of the happy couple.

"I heard…" from the carpet of bluebells,

"Did you ever…" from a passing brook,

"Can you…" from the sap in the trees,

"Ssh," said a leaf – who was not really a leaf, but had taken the form of one for the better view. The babbling stopped; a sudden hush fell over the forest. Dressed in white, dark hair tumbling down her back, bright eyes smiling, the bride not only glowed but shimmered. Beside her, hands clasped around the tips of her fingers, the bridegroom recited his vows with a gravel tongue, having trouble speaking through the wide smile on his face.

At the time, Charles Daae was nineteen years old and he was a romantic.

It had been a month since he had been brought, by way of cricket-song and moonbeams, to Faerie; as it seemed renown of his violin had spread even through the magickal lands. He had played for the king and queen and their court, and in return he had been granted the chance to stay for as long as he wished – if he would play again, of course. That was he first time he had seen the lady Evangeline, smiling at him from behind her father's knee. She had flushed at his unabashed gaze and averted her eyes.

During the next few weeks, they had danced around increasingly frequent, clandestine meetings and shy letters; when he played for all of Faerie, he played only for her enjoyment.

"Do you think you're under a spell, boy?" she had asked once, as they sat on the curve of a cherry blossom and watched the moons rise.

"I don't know," he had replied. But he was smiling, and she laughed softly as their hands joined. "I want to ask your father for your hand in marriage," he had said nervously, quietly, ready for her rejection but not daring to look at her pointed face and ever-changing eyes. "I have nothing to offer him that he does not already have."

"We are not like your people," she had told him, head tilted upwards into the night sky. "Offer him what you can, pretty boy, and we shall see."

Charles locked himself in his room without food or drink and emerged a week later with a fistful of manuscript. And so the King's daughter was given a lifetime as a mortal for the price of a song; they were married not a week later.

"To thee," Evangeline said softly, "I give my mortal life."

The forest erupted in celebration.


	2. Vigil

Thank you for the reviews! Anyways, here we go… :)

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1: Christine

It was November, but which November? There was snow on the ground so it was not her eleventh, when the leaves stayed green until Christmas; she was sharing a sleeping pallet with her papa in the back of a caravan wagon so it was not her tenth, spent on the beaches of southern France or her fourteenth, back home in Sweden. So, it was her twelfth or thirteenth year, then, a time she tended to exchange in her memories as it is.

Night had fallen and some were asleep, or simply retired together with the subtle lack of fanfare that transmitted a warning to the entire camp. However, most everyone had gathered around the fire, drinking, laughing, dancing – Christine sat at her papa's knee as he weaved a sort of Slavic dance that had everyone pairing off to whirl over the trampled ground. Petr, an impish young man who Christine had known before he was known as Petr and before he was a young man, asked her to dance. Pleading ignorance of the steps, she tried to refuse, but he dragged her out regardless and soon she was spinning along with the rest of them, Petr's laughter rich in her ears, his hold inviting and familiar.

The fire was warm against her blue-booted feet – ah, her thirteenth year, as the shoes were new from that fall – but she was careful not to stray from the light, careful to avoid the corners where shadows could sneak in. She has done so ever since she was six – ignorant, young, and silly enough to wander off alone.

Their dance ended; Petr kissed her hand with an exaggerated grace before handing her to another – she had time to recognize Piemeur's sly grin before another song sent them off. At first, she had been just another outsider, a little girl to gawk and sneer at but otherwise ignore. Then Madame Semele had taken an interest in the girl and her abilities, and taken Christine under her wing. They gypsy magick was nothing like the effortless manipulations of Christine's childhood – the tarot cards and scrying mirrors amused and confused her at first, but she quickly learned they were potent in their own way.

It seemed that with Madame's acceptance came that of others – albeit slowly. By their second year spent traveling on-and-off with the small group of gypsies, with a red scarf covering her blonde curls and a certain flair to her step, she could have easily passed as one of them, in the right light.

She returned to her papa flushed and breathing heavily, ignoring his indulgent smile and teasing to empty the last of her water canteen. Out in the distance, a wolf howled; Christine stopped dead as her blood ran cold. No one had noticed the malice in that sound – except perhaps Madame, rolling over in her sleep – and so life continued on.

Sometimes, she could still see bright, burning eyes in her dreams, luring her away and into the night-darkened forest, promising – oh, she wasn't sure what they had promised – drawing her father and farther in, until a hand beckoned her closer and reached out…

She had no idea what might have happened if Marie, who Christine had previously thought of as nothing more than a stubborn old pony, hadn't grabbed the hood of her cloak, dragging her back and away from the ice-cold grip on her wrist. The figure, with a howling screech, had whirled up into the sky; Marie let go and Christine crumpled to the ground, clutching her forearm and crying silently. Years later, the scar would still chill.

"I suppose it can't be helped now," the pony said softly, soothingly. "Come, girl, your father will be worried."

And so Christine was unceremoniously dropped into the world of magick She had always been aware of it on a subconscious level – her heritage would not have it otherwise – but now she saw the world around her with a new clarity. At the time, it was considered surprisingly mature; later on, when her views did not change with age, they were seen as childish and simple. To Christine, there was not the luxury of black and white, or even gray. She saw the world around her in vivid colour, although it was often rose-tinted, and with constant curiosity.

From that day on, companions were to be found everywhere – the dryads who had taught her of the earth's underlying rhythms; the nyads who had explained the swell of the sea; the centaurs who had shown her the patterns of the stars; the faeries, who smiled sadly and talked to her in the languages of flowers and birds. However, it was her papa who had taught her of music, of the written word, and of unconditional love, and in return he had her total devotion.

It was he that she returned to that November night. While he played, she watched Petr charm Alexandra, a poor girl who fancied herself madly in love with him. Christine had to laugh; in all the years he had been a part of their family in some way or another, she had never seen him without some affair being conducted in the background. At one time, not so long ago, she had hoped it could – would – be her. The thought still made her cringe and giggle.

"I hope you won't abandon me for such a heartbreaker," her papa said lightly, and Christine frowned.

"Never," she swore, pressing her cheek to his warm shoulder.

Christine had once asked Petr – who was more of a dragonfly at the time – why one such as he should look after the daughter of a poor violinist, when there were certainly those who were more deserving of his attention. He had sighed, then, and curled a lock of her hair around his finger as he told her of a promise he had once made to a lady whose mortal life had been taken from her far too soon. For days afterwards, Christine had not been content until she had exhausted his knowledge of her past, her parents' past, and everything in between.

Once its presence was known, the magick lying dormant in her blood would not be ignored. By the month's end, she was performing simple childish charms; by the time a year had passed, she wove magick as easily as breathing. She had only ever confided of her world to one person – a young boy she had spent a summer with on the beaches down south. They had pledged to marry one day, and then she had formed two rings out of a sand dollar. Years later, when it would only fit on her little finger, she would still wear it. That day, she had shown him the wonders of her world, he had kissed her on the cheek and they had been inseparable for the rest of the summer.

Other than the occasional letter, they did not really keep in touch, but Christine always held a hope in her heart that he would remember their promise. When she spoke of him, Petr's eyes flashed and something in him coiled, but in the usual single-mindedness of children, Christine ignored it.

Her papa shifted and creaked to his feet, smiling down at her. "Are you going to stay?" he asked, tucking his violin under his arm. Christine nodded off-handedly, then stopped as her eyes met his. "No," she said suddenly, grabbing his hand with a sudden strength born out of fear. "Let's go."

In the flickering firelight, with the lines etched into his face and the drooping curve of his chin highlighted by the dull glow, for the first time, Christine realized that her father was mortal.

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	3. Things Behind the Sun

Augh. Here we are with chapter three, when Erik makes his grand entrance. Woot. Enjoy.

* * *

Night had fallen, and the air was cold; November was no time to be traveling alone, especially when one's business did not allow him to use the roads. At least the freezing rain had stopped with the setting sun, even though leaves still turned themselves over sporadically, spilling ice water onto the ground below. However, he had managed to build a small fire that smoked sullenly against the wet logs – it gave off little enough heat, but he would have to make do. He had survived worse nights, in any case. Occasionally, restless, he would wander to where his horse was tethered, a stubborn but surprisingly silent Arabian he had liberated from the Shah's stables, to check on the scraps of cloth wound around the bit and to see if his one blanket was warm enough for its liking; however, the angry red glow of his ring sent him back to the fireside each time.

He was a man on the run, and he was known as Erik. Not because he had been baptized with that name, or had it given to him by his mother, but because he himself had searched for it those long years alone on the road, choosing and casting aside identities like old cloaks. It was the name he had decided upon in Persia the night he fled from the Forbidden, and for the moment it suited him well enough.

Had the issue been left to his childhood, Erik doubted he would have had a name at all. His earliest memories, full of worried women in black scuttling and clucking and sidestepping his path, held no real identification and later, living in seclusion in a monastery, he had been referred to as simply "you" or possibly "it." Not even "he," a distinction Erik had never really understood until he was older. At first, he had assumed that he was an orphan pledged to the Church and God's service like the other boys, but it quickly became obvious that he was no meant to take part in their education. The only book he was meant to read was the Bible, constantly atoning for sins he had no hope of comprehending, sins that he had no hand in. This, too, he did not understand until later.

Erik shook his head and stared into the flames, but there was nothing to be seen except the inane flickering of a fist closing around the logs and he dared not conjure anything else, for fear of attracting his pursuers. Once again, his relentless desire for knowledge had nearly gotten him killed. When he was younger, that same pursuit had driven him to disobey the priests and secretly make his way through their entire library, despite the threat of days of solitary confinement when he was caught. However, at an early age, locks had begun to mean nothing to him, when they would inexplicably open with the right flick of his wrist, and so he devoured the books without fear of consequence. When they ran out, he began to write his own on stolen scraps of paper, filling up entire epics of architecture, literature, natural sciences – everything and anything he had learned.

In those days, he had called himself Jean, after the kindly old priest who tended to ignore misplaced or borrowed books. He was a loner, even though most of the other boys would have ignored him anyways, and he spent most of his days alone in his rare solitary room, or in the chapel, praying and listening to the daily chants and hymns. Music, too, had ignited his passion in those early years, but other than the day's standard hymns, it had been equally denied by his elders. However, he was taught the basics of notation to follow the scores, and so he had made do with his own music, which at first was only meant only to fill the holes inside that hymns could not.

Even while living in a house of God, he had not found any alliance with Deity of any sort – resenting the alleged sins thrust upon him for no obvious reason, hating the unfair rules that prohibited his singing. He had been an aloof child, held apart by the cloth mask he was forced to wear at all times – this too, he had resented – uncommonly focused and quick to anger. He did not understand why languages, along with locks and walls, should mean nothing to him, but he cultivated those strange abilities as much as he could.

It was during his eleventh year that everything had fallen apart. His writings, hidden in his sleeping pallet – music and all – had been discovered and burned. Enraged, he had demanded why he should be so different from the other boys – why he should wear a mask and learn in secret, leaving his mind to curdle. It wasn't until years later that Erik realized his intellect – which hadn't seemed anything but ordinary to him at the time – frightened them just as much as his face. That afternoon, Brother Jean had pulled him in front of the well and bid him take off the mask.

He had left that night, Jean no more.

Erik frowned and prodded the sickly flames with a stick. That was not important anymore – he had never even set foot in a chapel since then, not by choice.

Silence, then, made him stiffen – too much silence, followed by an outburst of clattering hooves. Cesar shifted uneasily but was, mercifully, otherwise silent. Erik reached for the lasso in his cloak and jumped to his feet, ready to defend himself, only to realize the hunters were moving away from his position. Just as he was about to investigate what could have drawn them off, the undergrowth parted to reveal a tall man whose skin melted into the night.

"Daroga," Erik greeted with raised eyebrows, lowering himself to the ground once more. "How is it a man can sound like an entire troop of cavalry moving in the other direction?"

The man smiled in a sudden flash of white teeth, and seated himself across from Erik. "_They_ were headed this way, but a figure of some sort drew them father into the trees. Strange bit of luck, that." His eyes flashed cat-like in a reflection of the light, belying his nonchalant tone.

Erik snorted, not fooled for a second. They had met in a Russian prison several years ago, when the man had introduced himself as simply "Daroga," even as the quirk of his lips and his current position had marked him as anything but. Erik had introduced himself as Sebastian in return, and they had spent the better part of five years traveling together, following a rather anticlimactic prison break. The Daroga had been with him that night in Persia, but he had stayed behind as a distraction while Erik had escaped with their prize. Out of common courtesy, they had never discussed each other's heightened abilities, but Erik knew enough to know that the Daroga was dangerous when trifled with.

"Do you have it?" the Persian asked, eyeing the small leather bag by Erik's feet that held his journals, several books, meager enough rations, and what they had both risked so much for. In response, Erik reached inside and pulled out a small wooden carving of a panther and a jackal with their necks intertwined so you could not tell whose head belonged to whom. His interest in the artifact was purely academic, but judging by the look on his friend's face, that feeling was not mutual.

"It's certainly well-made… the _detail_, Daroga… but it's strange how something so simple could be so powerful." And powerful it was: even the heavy weight of it in his hand radiated strength and majesty beyond what simple sight revealed, but it was a power Erik did not understand, that was locked off to him and his abilities. Shrugging, he tossed it over the flames before he lost his entire arm to the dangerous gleam in the Persian's eyes.

The man's eyes closed as his long, dark fingers curled around the cedar carvings, detailed down to the last hair on the last curve of motion. "I never thought…" he breathed quietly.

"And I never thought we could outdo the Americas," Erik shot back with a grin, twisting his finger so a gold ring glinted in the light. "Don't get ahead of yourself. We're not out of this yet, Daroga."

He shrugged. "Those fools will follow that shadow right back to Persia, and by then we shall be safe enough." A smile then, with none of the usual overtones, broke out. "Thank you, my friend. I am forever in your debt."

Rolling his eyes, Erik set more logs on the fire. "Don't get sentimental on me, Daroga," he said as he got up to check on Cesar once more. "You may regret it some day."

* * *

Soundtrack:  
Zero 7 – In The Waiting Line  
Massive Attack – Inertia Creeps 


	4. Into The Fire

I know it's been a while, but I very nearly lost my inspiration for this fic. Thankfully (?) it came back :). Anyways. Disclaimers are the same as ever, and I hope you enjoy!

-

The sun was nearly halfway across the sky and Christine had pulled her shawl forward to shade her – regretfully pale – skin from the sun's rays glinting off the snow when Petr came the next morning to help her Papa chop firewood. For Christine, who had never bothered with the modesty and decorum that was required of most girls her age – her father, while kind and loving, had no true idea of how to raise a proper lady and for most magickal beings, clothing was usually decorative at best and shame, as a general rule, was frowned upon. And so it was that she sat on the edge of the cart, ankles swinging her skirts in some semblance of a breeze, trying not to giggle at the fake – a feat of engineering that never quite lost its novelty – play of muscle on her guardian's bare back as the logs split down the middle. Sitting as she was, it was easy to understand why Rosa, a local dryad, would be so enamored with him.

He turned to reach for his water canteen, and as he caught her frank gaze, grinned and winked. Flushing a little, Christine smiled back. Her papa was still concentrating on a log with a rather large knot in it as she summoned the canteen into her own hands, taking a long, dramatic drink; he rolled his eyes and over-extended his arm to snatch it back.

"Show-off," she muttered, trying unsuccessfully to hold it out of his reach.

"Brat," he shot back, patting her on the cheek before retracting his arm. When her Papa looked up to see what the fuss was about, they both smiled and waved like guilty children. Christine giggled and summoned the water bottle once more, tucking it underneath her thigh and settling her weight on that one leg.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" she called out cheerfully, catching her Papa's warm smile and Petr's wry grin.

"Absolutely wonderful, love," he said, the familiar endearment making her flush a little deeper and his grin widen.

"If by wonderful you mean wretchedly hot," murmured her Papa, who had never gotten used to any sort of winter but the cool Scandinavian weather. Christine hopped to the ground to bring him some water; in the warmth of midday, he seemed as ageless as ever, but the memory of last night's revelation still tugged at her heart every time she thought of it.

No, but that would not do. Intent on enjoying the warm weather to its fullest, she pushed all thoughts of the sort from her mind and smiled resolutely. Her Papa drank gratefully, as Peter watched with an odd smile on his face. She was about to ask him about it when Pimeur appeared from behind their cart, his cheeks smudged with dirt and his eyes laughing as always.

"_Madame_ wants to see you, Christine," he said with that odd, sharp accent that Petr had never quite mastered, and leaning forward conspiratorially, he added in a softer tone: "I think she's bored, to be honest."

Christine sighed; when _Madame_ was bored, that usually led to hours upon hours slaving over the cards, memorizing every position and every nuance until her head hurt and her eyes couldn't see straight. For some reason, she had never been able to grasp the concept, and for some reason, _Madame_ wouldn't just let them go. Her Papa nodded, in a semblance of permission, and she reached up on tip-toes to kiss her cheek.

"Behave," he said, thumbing her nose affectionately. She shared a sympathetic glance with Petr, who shared her annoyance with the so-called art of Tarot.

"Keep your head on, girl. We can go visit Rosa when you return."

Buoyed by the prospect of a visit with the bubbly tree spirit with an odd, obsessive love for Lieder and a certain shapeshifter, she took Pimeur's hand and with a parting wave, they hurried off through the camp. As they passed the remains of last night's fire, she shivered with a remembered chill and searched the surrounding trees for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing but brush and shadow, and Christine wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

When they reached _Madame_'s tent, Pimeur left her with a pilfered apple – which she slipped into her pocket – and a smile before scurrying off to the impromptu game of _rouge et noir_ that always seemed to start up whenever he was around. With one, last wistful look at the blue sky, she lifted the tent flap and slipped inside –

Only to be brought up short, as if by a wall.

"Ah, there you are, girl," Madame Semele said, from her usual, cushioned seat behind the pitted and scorched old table, the scent of patchouli rising from a monkey's skull on the smaller table next to her. In Christine's usual spot, however, sat two – two beings in the shape of men, at least – one dark-skinned man with a kind face and a familiar aura, and a cloaked, masked man that radiated nothing but the cold of winter. Despite the heat kept in by the dark angles of the tent, she shivered involuntarily. Even though a fedora hid his eyes, she could feel his assessing, calculating gaze following her every move. "Christine, these men would like to have their cards read-" she very nearly groaned, but _Madame_'s sharp glare kept her silent – "and I would like it very much if you would do the honours."

For the first time ever, she shifted to make room for Christine on the far side of the table; she hurried to oblige before _Madame _could change her mind. To make her way over in the cramped space, she had to squeeze by the dark-skinned man: she stumbled on the bench leg and only a quick, strong grip kept her from tumbling face-first into the ground. "There is no hurry, girl," he said kindly, in an odd off-kilter accent that never quite rang true. Christine had to take a moment to filter his words, and smiled shyly before continuing on her way. The second man, even with a white mask made of cloth covering his face, managed to convey disapproval with only the set of his shoulders and a put-upon exhale. Bristling automatically, Christine let herself sink into the scented cushions, noting with relief that _Madame_ had pulled out the Russian tiles instead of the Tarot. Perhaps she might not make a fool of herself, after all.

"And what brings you two gentleman to our neck of the woods?" she asked cordially, arranging her skirts and smiling in the way she had seen _Madame_ do so often – trying for mysterious but aware that she fell short by a long shot. Something under the mask moved, as if he intended to speak, but the dark-skinned man cut him off.

"We were simply passing through." There was a quiet finality to his voice that dissuaded any further questions. The masked man huffed and shifted impatiently in his chair, but from her side of the table, Christine found that she did not care so much. Smiling demurely, she picked up the tiles in her right hand, face-up, and shuffled them into her left to clear the deck, hands nimble after so much practice.

"Who would be first?" she asked, assessing the dark-skinned man's frank stare, trying to see the gaze of his companion. It was the former that held out his hand, into which she placed the cards. He also shuffled from left to right, seven times, before handing them back. The solemn ceremony of it all nearly made her giggle, but she managed to keep her face cool and aloof. Mostly. Hopefully. Cutting the deck once, she laid out ten tiles, five in one row, and five below, and watched to see if any two adjoining cards would form a complete picture if rotated. To her surprise and pleasure, there were more than usual.

"The clover in first position," she said, rotating the tiles so the colourful green and red tile matched up, "means you have recently found happiness and the fulfillment of your desires, is this true?" His short laugh prompted her to continue. "Luck will continue to be on your side, at least for a short while."

"Good to know," he said, absentmindedly patting his pocket. "What about this one?"

"The ship?"

"I hate water," he confessed slyly. She giggled, behind her hand, and then attempted to compose herself.

"That signifies travel, but it doesn't specify how. Combined with the road," and here she gestured to the bottom row, "it makes the prospect of a long trip very likely." Here, he hummed quietly; the man beside him was eerily still, but Christine did her best to put him out of her mind. Perhaps it was her new position in the tent or the pressure of performance, but she had never done so well! Even _Madame_ was smiling proudly.

The scythe. She frowned. "There is an evil fate that pursues you? Oh, my…"

"This is not news," the masked man said at last, causing Christine to recoil in shock. He had the most amazing voice that she had ever heard, deep and rich and almost like the chocolate they had bought in Switzerland that one time, with an odd undercurrent of bitterness, like it had been burned. She felt the resonance of power hidden deep within, and wondered if that meant she wanted to hear more, or run far, far away.

"It's not me, it's the cards," she snapped finally, "how am I supposed to know?"

"Leave him be, girl. He means no harm." A sharp glare in his companion's direction served as insurance. Sighing – longing? – Christine rotated a few more tiles.

"The knot means that a tie you have formed long ago will be renewed, and will stay with you for a lifetime." There was nothing more – a look at _Madame_ confirmed it. "That is all I can say, _monsieur_, for that is all I have been given."

He nodded, still as kind as ever; it was strange, her heart warmed just to look at him, even as she found her gaze drawn to the stranger by his side. Could he speak just one more time, perhaps? She had almost forgotten the thrill of it. "It has been more than enough. Thank you." His hand was held out, to drop a few coins into her palm. "You have a gift, dear child. Don't ever take that for granted."

Blushing, she dropped her gaze and pocketed half the money, pushing the rest towards _Madame_. He chuckled and got to his feet, his companion following suit. "You do not want your cards read?" Christine found herself asking; steeling herself against the steely glare she could just _imagine_ being behind that mask.

"I do not believe in such fancies," he drawled, "it is an art I leave to those foolish enough to believe in fate." As the dark-skinned man rolled his eyes in apology, he turned on his heel and was halfway through the tent flap –

"You're lonely!" Christine nearly shrieked, "you are lonely and the evil that follows you is not simply external. You search for peace, and yet you search in vain, for peace will only be found in a sparrow's song, or in the shine of moon dust, or in the shade of a Fairy's wing. Even so, you will search and you will search and you will never stop until-" she could not control the words being torn out of her, as if from her very soul, until at last she cut herself off to find that her hair had fallen free of its shawl and was sparking madly around her head, that her fingernails had gouged tracks into the wood table and her fingertips were bleeding, that her throat was raw and when she swallowed reflexively, she tasted blood.

"Until what?" The man's voice was coaxing, now, and she wanted to answer him, she _did_, but the end of the sentence had left her along with the trance.

"I'm sorry," was all she could say. The dark-skinned man was frowning reflexively, and _Madame_ even seemed shocked. "I do not know any more." The masked man turned once more, and an unbidden, half-memory came to her. "We will meet again," she called out; this time, he paused but did not turn around.

"I somehow doubt that," he said, before the tent flap fell and he was obscured from her view. She only had room to breathe in once, twice, before she fainted.


	5. Chapter 5

The One Where Erik is a stubborn bastard, the Persian gets his say, and Christine sleeps it off. I will confess to being crazy-fond of the Persian and a certain OC, but this _was_ necessary to save a lot of he-said-he-said later on. Everybody loves the Persian, right? I apologise to all the Nadir fans out there, but Kay and I have never been on the best of terms. Hope you enjoy, please review if you liked it or if you didn't, constructive criticism is definitely encouraged!

As for names: when you're around for a few millennia, you tend to pick up different aliases. Different people may think of the same character with a different name, but I'll try to keep it obvious who everybody is :)

-

The Daroga helped the old Gypsy lay out the girl on the makeshift bed, clearing away patchouli-scented pillows and holding back her hair so it would not get caught under he shoulders. Surprisingly small, pale and blonde with fine bones, she was most definitely not a gypsy an he couldn't help wondering at the story behind her apprenticeship in the usually carefully-guarded folk arts. His inherent curiosity, one last vice he put up with, made him consider asking Madame Semele, but one look at her stern, worried face dissuaded that line of thought.

"Too much," she was murmuring, hovering fretfully over the child's prone form. "Too much, too soon, I should have _known_..." she reached for a small bag stashed into her skirts and turned her glare onto the Daroga – it took true effort not to back away at the sharp honesty of her stare. "You! Go! She will be fine, no thanks to your friend out there..." she broke off, muttering to herself in Romanian, and the Daroga, who _did_ have a sense for self-preservation, bid a hasty retreat and emerged into the bright sun-glare of early afternoon just in time to see Erik leading Cesar back into the trees. He had known of his companion's origins – as he had learned his lesson on blind trust early on, but in all this time he had never seen it thrown back at him so blatantly. Judging by the heavy, marching stride of Erik's boots, it was a sore subject after all.

"Erik," he called, in an attempt to at least slow the man down. No such luck; if anything, Erik began to walk faster.

"Leave me be, Daroga," it was a simple whisper designed to carry, as his dark cloak faded into the trees. The Daroga made as if to follow – a squirrel, perhaps, could make good time against an annoyingly maudlin half-blood – when a heavy hand on his shoulder kept him in place.

"Well old man," it was a young voice, with an odd cadence to the Romanian accent that made the Daroga turn, nearly laughing in surprise, "I was wondering when you would show yourself around here. Finally bored of chasing sandstorms down south?"

He had the shape of a young man, to go with the voice, but the Daroga would have known those ageless eyes anywhere. And so he grinned, relaxing into old habits and old languages like a worn glove. "I was beginning to think that you had disappeared altogether," he responded, holding his palms out in the traditional greeting. The young man pressed his own against the Daroga's hands, and the sharp thrill of shifting into each other nearly made him cry out. It had been far, far too long. The young man – Pan, _here_ of all places, looked equally as dazed; apparently the others were still scattered after the hell that was the Inquisition. Not that anybody could blame them; the Daroga himself had spent years running from those damned memories.

"It's been a while," Pan said, echoing his thoughts in a characteristic understatement, as he pulled his hands back; the Daroga dropped his own reluctantly. "What brings you to our humble backwater? The wonderful weather? The rustic charm? Or did you just miss me?"

"Nothing but chance," the Daroga sniffed; he remembered the small carving in his pocket and grinned – _he_ should have known. Enjoying the anticipation, he pulled out the artwork and tossed it towards Pan without letting him see what it was – the giddy shock on his old friend's face made the entire debacle worth it, half-bloods, Forbidden, and all. "Good chance, you might say." He thought of the young girl inside and winced; Pan did not notice, as he was too busy examining the woodwork in his hands.

"You _didn't_," he murmured, thumbs following the curve of the jackal's arched back reverently, eyes glittering dangerously.

"Oh, I assure you, I did. It was about time, too." They shared a conspiratorial smile and suddenly he was a thousand years ago and a thousand miles away, staring at the joining of two stars as the moon sank into the sea – but no, no it was late fall and it was midday and he had seen so much – too much – since then. "Do you have somewhere safe to keep it?" the responsibility he had learned since then made him ask. Pan nodded.

"It's not as if I'm wandering freely these days," he said tucking the carving into a small bag hanging from his shoulder. "All things considered, you see."

As a matter of fact, the Daroga did not, and he said so. "I never thought to find you in the middle of nowhere, masquerading as a Gypsy." A thought occurred to him, and he had to roll his eyes at the probability. "It's not another woman, is it? You know that never turns out well."

Pan only smiled, infuriatingly enigmatic. "You might be right, old friend. Let's just say that I made a promise to a lady, one I intend to keep." His eyes flashed towards Madame Semele's tent, then, and his smile turned soft and oddly vulnerable. It was an expression that the Daroga had only seen once before on his friend's face, and its reappearance made something inside him constrict. "Had you told me a century ago that I would be perfectly content playing the guardian to a young girl..." he broke off, laughing ruefully. The Daroga thought once again of the child inside – gifted, yes, but to warrant such protection...?

"It is a bit out of character," was all he said out loud; Pan raised an eyebrow. "And yet you seem as sharp as ever." Right down to the pores on the young Gypsy's face, which the Daroga knew from experience took considerable effort to keep up. In these Christian lands, where his current dark-skinned appearance made most people uneasy enough not to look too closely, he had grown a bit sloppy.

"After thirteen years of keeping that little hellion out of trouble, I damned well should be." The fond affection in his voice triggered something in the Daroga's memory – "although when you think of Evangeline as a child, this is a near-cakewalk; after all, it took both of us to keep that little brat in line..."

Oh,

oh, dear.

Suddenly it all fell into place: the timing, the girl, the premonition, the only Lady that could ever warrant one of Pan's elusive promises, the damned shifter himself lounging in the sun as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Everyone knew of the Lady's half-blood child with a mortal man, but on the other hand no one seemed to know exactly who it was or where they were kept hidden. He had to admit, she could hardly be safer; or, at least, she couldn't have been. He hazarded a glance to where Erik had disappeared into the shadows: odd things tended to happen when mixed-bloods met. "Damn," he muttered, frowning. The last thing they needed was trouble, especially with the girl unconscious

"What?" Pan asked, eyes narrowing.

"The girl is inside sleeping off an unbidden premonition – no, don't run off, that's not all. She read the cards for me, but the premonition was for the man I was travelling with, the wraith's convent son." The grim recognition in Pan's eyes mirrored his own. _We will meet again_... "You know, if I had only known of the girl's background..."

"Then others would have known and descended upon us like wolves. No, no, one lone wolf is more than enough." Although he had calmed down, he still had a strange energy that made the Daroga shift from foot too foot in unconscious empathy. "Are you sure she is alright?"

"Quite sure, at least for now." Sighing, the Daroga stilled and met the old shifter's eyes. "I should go and make sure he stays away – although it's unlikely return unless he was somehow bound and gagged and dragged back with several oxen." No easy feat for his stubborn partner, but it did nothing to reassure Pan. "He is not an evil man. He is not completely _good_ – who is? – but there is true honour there, along with pride to rival your own. It was his pride she attacked; he will not return." Finally appeased, Pan nodded.

"I hope you're right, old man." He sighed, some of the fine detail to his form fading away momentarily.

Knowing they would both be around to catch up another time, the Daroga waved his hand towards the tent housing the girl who had inspired such devotion in the one being he had thought had forgotten how to care about others. However, even from that short encounter, he could see how she could have managed it so easily: so like and yet so unlike her mother. "Go," he said, "take care of your girl. She needs you."

Pan smiled softly, held out a hand; the Daroga clasped it. "Take care of yourself, Kai." The shock of hearing his true name for the first time in years made the Daroga's fingers clench harder.

"The same to you, Pan," he responded. As the young Gypsy pulled back and turned away, the Daroga shifted into the form of a bird and took off with a clatter of wings; he had a lot of lost ground to make up.

-


End file.
